SATURDAY, AUGUST 28, 6:30 P.M.

D’AMICO LEFT HIM at headquarters and went on to the Ministry.

On his way to his own office, Blume knocked on Gallone’s door.

“In! Ah, it’s you, Commissioner. I am very disappointed, and very angry too, I don’t mind saying.”

“I think there have been a few misunderstandings, sir,” said Blume. “The investigating magistrate instructed me to go straight to Sveva Romagnolo. I’m going to write up the report now and deliver it to him. I can’t ignore a specific instruction from a prosecutor.”

“You could have informed me,” was all Gallone said. Blume waited for more, but there seemed to be no more talk about defending the privacy of the grieving widow, and Blume got the feeling Gallone was not keen to recall the image of himself being unceremoniously bundled out of Sveva’s apartment.

“And I think if you call Di Tivoli, you’ll find he has no complaints to make of us. I am going to write up the report on that interview, too. Will you sign it off before I forward it to the prosecutor?”

Gallone seemed to have lost interest in the incident, too. Responsibility weighed heavily upon him. Blume doubted he had ever done so much paperwork in his life. And the widow was not even thankful.

“Blume, I am very busy. I have to write up some reports myself. I got the autopsy report, and now I discover that Romagnolo had appointed her own medical examiner to attend the autopsy. She did this without informing me.”

“Anything interesting in the autopsy?”

“What? No. No. Confirmed cause of death was multiple stab wounds. Stomach contents—breakfast. Clemente had eaten high-fiber spelt. Which is basically cardboard, if you ask me. And an apple. Brown rice the night before. You’ll get a copy. Oh, and we’re going after Alleva. Making a move tonight—or maybe tomorrow morning, at this rate. Don’t miss the next meeting, Commissioner.”

“I won’t. What about the house-to-house calls?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. And still I have to write a detailed report on all this nothingness,” said Gallone.

Blume’s tiny office was preceded by a larger room that Paoloni, Zambotto, and Ferrucci shared, though only Ferrucci was ever to be found there. It served as a sort of antechamber to his office and even lent it a slight air of authority. Right now, it contained Ferrucci, who was sitting at his desk, staring at the computer screen.

Blume went into his office and phoned the investigating magistrate.

“I said you told me to visit Sveva Romagnolo. You did, didn’t you?”

“Yes, that’s fine,” said Principe. “Anything?”

“I would say she is sufficiently grief-stricken, but you can’t always judge these things. Who am I to say how sad a person should be?”

“Or show themselves to be,” said Principe. “I’ve issued a detention warrant on Alleva.”

“Yes. So I heard. Gallone’s supposed to be coordinating, so you’ll be lucky if it’s executed this side of Christmas. The poor man has never seen so many forms.”

“Damn. I better make sure he manages to organize an arrest by tomorrow at least,” said Principe. “I’ll phone him now.”

Blume hung up and called in Ferrucci.

“Have you still got that list of names of the people the Carabinieri detained after the dog fight?”

“Yes. Zambotto and Paoloni are checking them out now.”

Blume looked at Ferrucci’s hopelessly frank face. The day would come when even Ferrucci would be tough enough to talk to the bad guys, but not for a long time.

“They are looking into the bad guys?”

“Yes. Working backwards: from the worst offenders to the least.”

“All the way back up to Alleva and his helper, what’s his name?”

“Massoni. Some of these guys have even worse records,” said Ferrucci.

“I’ve been thinking, Marco: maybe we have been doing this the wrong way around.”

“Doing what the wrong way around?”

“The list.”

“You mean going from the most to the least likely is the wrong way to do it?”

“Yes,” said Blume. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

“But . . .”

Blume waited. He wanted to see if he had been right about the young man’s intelligence. For a moment he doubted it. Ferrucci seemed to stare stupidly at the window, but then his eyes darted sideways as if he had glimpsed a quick-moving animal on the rooftops outside.

“I get it,” he said.

“Let’s hear it, then.”

“OK. Your theory is that the victim was killed in a random or semirandom attack.”

“Let’s say semirandom,” said Blume.

“Now we have a list of names, and the first ones we are looking at are those who have killed before, those who are connected, have previous convictions, and so on. But that would make the killing less random, and more organized.”

Blume nodded encouragement. He was pleased with his protégé.

“So,” continued Ferrucci, “when the Carabinieri carried out the raid on the warehouse, they detained only three people with no criminal records. Three people who are not crime professionals.”

“The ones we were planning to question last. Where are they?”

Ferrucci ducked into his office and was back with a sheet. “These three here.” He quickly circled three names with a pen.

“When’s the next meeting of the investigative team?” asked Blume.

“At eight this evening. The Holy Ghost wants to know who’s doing overtime after eight.”

Ferrucci, trying to sound nonchalant as he used Gallone’s nickname for the first time. But he’d just earned himself the right.

“So we’ve got about one hour. How about we check out these three. Right now. You pick one name, I’ll pick another.”

“And the third?”

“We’ve got one hour. Neither of us has time to interview more than one person. I’ll get the third after the meeting, or maybe tomorrow. Go on, pick a name.”

Ferrucci pointed at the first of the three names. “Gianfranco Canghiari. Hairdresser, salon near Parioli, house in Trullo.” He glanced at his watch.

“He should still be at work. Should I go now?”

“Yes.”

“What do I ask him?”

“I don’t know. Ask him why he likes seeing animals tear each other apart, whether he declares all his earnings, whether he has a clear conscience about how he uses the computer—anything. Hassle him a bit. Get a feel for what sort of a person he is.”

Blume indicated the next name on the list, Dandini, a car salesman. “I’ll talk to this guy, see who he is. Then one of us will check out the third guy tomorrow morning, or whenever. What’s his name?”

“Angelo Pernazzo. Perl scripting programmer.”

“I don’t even know what that is,” said Blume.

7 P.M.

Dandini turned out to be a man with black curly hair who looked like he was on the verge of bursting into a Puccini solo. Despite himself, Blume liked him almost immediately. He sold fat, ecologically criminal cars from a lot situated off the ring road next to Casale Lumbroso, and was just finishing off a sales pitch to a couple interested in a Volkswagen Touareg when Blume arrived. Blume allowed him to see them off, then he and Dandini went into a prefabricated hut, where Dandini loosened a wide yellow necktie and placed his bulk in front of a roaring air conditioner. He put his hand in his jacket, pulled out what looked like a sheet from a child’s bed, and dabbed his forehead with it.

“I heard thunder earlier. Rain would be nice, but then we have to wash all the cars, especially if it’s got sand in it.”

Dandini seemed genuinely pleased to meet Blume. Even when Blume pulled out his police identification Dandini continued to beam at him, and offered Blume a visiting card, as if completing a fair trade.

According to Dandini, being caught up in a swoop by the Carabinieri was quite the best thing that had ever happened to him.

He paused, a big expectant smile on his face as he waited for Blume to pick up the cue.

Blume obligingly expressed wonderment at the paradox.

Because—here Dandini clenched his fist—it brought it home to him that he had a serious gambling problem. He opened the top drawer, pulled out a white cardboard box, opened it, and offered Blume a puff pastry.

Blume declined. Dandini helped himself to one. The very next day, he and his wife sought help. They found a place on the Via Casaletto.

Some dry flakes of pastry and a cloud of sugar escaped his mouth and he stopped talking for a bit until he had things under control.

The people there were kind to him about his problem, but a bit harsh with his wife, who they said needed to change her superficial attitude. He didn’t get that bit, but they were doing much better. He hadn’t gambled in months. He had totally given up drinking, too, except on weekends and after a sale.

He thanked Blume for the interest shown by the police in these things. If it were up to him, there would be no more poker machines or lottery scratch cards either.

Blume wanted to know why he went to a dog fight. Did he not know it was cruel and inhumane and illegal?

“The odds,” said Dandini, shaking his large head slowly. “They had such great odds.”

Dandini said he had been in the office all day on Friday.

“Can anyone else confirm that?”

“Giovanni.”

“Who’s he?”

“My junior business partner. He’s gone to a customer’s to get some papers signed. He’ll probably go straight home after.”

“OK, maybe I’ll talk to him. Anyone else?”

“I made three sales yesterday. Well, I made one sale and signed the contracts of sale on two others. Maria, our secretary, was there. She draws up the ownership papers. She goes home at four.”

Blume took her number down. “When did you make the sales?”

“All morning. It takes a while, you know. The paperwork, showing them the car, putting on the license plate, waving them away. I was doing that from nine until lunchtime, then after lunch I made the third sale. It was a good day.”

“And you have the names of these customers. They can say you were here?”

“I hadn’t thought of that. Sure.” He pulled open a lower drawer and pulled out two folders. “These are the names, if you need them.”

A group of moneyed youngsters appeared in the forecourt, and Dandini looked at Blume longingly for permission to leave. Blume had not even begun to ask questions, but Dandini had solid alibis. In any case, he knew Dandini was not the man he was looking for.